Breaking Point
by Celine Mariamo
Summary: Just after Sam's departure for Stanford, Dean is falling apart. John is struggling to reconcile his roles as marine and father. An explosion is waiting to happen. Of course when it does, it's at 3 am in a forest on a wendigo hunt. What could go wrong! (Co-written by CelineNaville and Mariamo)
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: Dean, Sam, John and the Impala do not belong to us in any way. We are just playing with the characters. This story is written purely for enjoyment, with no profit of any kind expected, intended or desired. (co-written by CelineNaville and Mariamo)_

 _._

 **Breaking Point**

John Winchester tightened the hold on his Remington 870 Wingmaster shotgun and strained his eyes to see in the darkness. The moon was nearly full and cast some light, but the veil of the trees and terrain shadowed his surroundings.

"Dean," he said sharply. "Keep your eyes peeled. I thought I saw two Wendigo. These things don't travel in packs." He already didn't like the _feel_ of this hunt, some strange hunter's instinct telling him that they were in danger.

His son wasn't pulling his own weight and something about him felt _off_ in a way John had never witnessed before.

Dean tightened his grip on his rifle. He looked around, scanning the bushes, trying to shake his mind free from a daze of caffeine and exhaustion. "Okay, Dad."

John stepped carefully out into the hiker's path cutting through the forest of oak and maple and evergreens. He minded where he put his boots, avoiding the twigs and rocks and debris on the trail. "We shouldn't even be out here at night. This thing has full advantage now."

Dean felt an uncharacteristic tremble of nerves. He was off his game and he knew it. He tried for a poker face but wasn't sure he'd pulled it off. He hoped his father wouldn't notice in the dim light.

"Next time listen to me." John continued. "We shouldn't even have had to travel this far if you'd remembered to bring the flare gun and accelerant the first time."

"I'm sorry, Dad."

Going back to fetch something Dean should have remembered in the first place was unacceptable. "You're slipping." John replied simply. That had been true ever since Sam left for Stanford.

Dean's shoulders drooped a little in acknowledgment. His dad was on a fucking roll.

"Complacency will get you killed. How many times do I have to tell you that?"

Guilty as charged or not, the words still stung. Dean lifted his chin. "Sorry. I'm tryin'."

"It doesn't matter if we've hunted these things a hundred times... The hundred and first time it might kill you."

 _"Dad!"_ Dean couldn't help the note of exasperation at the same old lecture. "I know!"

"I'm trying to keep you safe here." John spared him a look, his features were sharp and disapproving in the dim light that ghosted across the plane of his cheekbones and the set of his brow. "Don't raise your voice to me."

"I know, Dad." Dean did know. There was a good reason for all the rules. "I'm sorry… Sir." He looked earnestly up at John.

His father gave him a tight nod and kept moving, edging his way toward the old hunting cabin and the promise of at least some protection from whatever was probably hunting them in equal measure as they were hunting it.

Dean followed behind him, trying to be the good little soldier, to follow his training: trying to concentrate on the job, but all too often simply going through the motions on autopilot as his mind kept settling into a familiar groove of worry. _Is Sam okay? Is Dad gonna leave next? Am I…_

Dad's deep voice cut through his reverie. "Just keep sharp out here, kid."

Dean jumped, startled out of his thoughts. He gave a guilty nod and promptly tripped over a root. He caught himself, a flush of embarrassment spreading across his face.

John spared him another glance, his mouth tight with disapproval. "Son, what is wrong with you?"

"I'm fine, Sir."

Dean's pale face stood out starkly in contrast to the shadow around him. His eyes-Mary's eyes- John thought suddenly, were wide and earnest.

There was a sudden rustle in the scrub and bushy underbrush surrounding the sides of the trail. Something large. John reacted instantly and trained his sites on it.

"Dad!" Dean followed suit. The barrel shook a little. He steadied his shoulder a little against a tree trunk, tried to slow his breathing.

John kept his finger on the trigger, going deathly silent.

The undergrowth moved again, ominous, threatening.

There was a slight rustle behind them. Dean risked a quick glance over his shoulder. There was nothing in sight. It didn't sound like a Wendigo.

The elder Winchester waited patiently, still as a statue.

A luminescent eye flashed in the moonlight as the sound came again, a susurration of leaves and branches. John held his fire, straining to see through the darkness.

Dean edged forward a little, focusing on his father's point of aim. His boot came to rest on a small, fallen branch. There was a sharp crack as it snapped.

The snap acted as an impetus to send the form leaping out of the darkness at them.

John held steady. "Hold your fire." He commanded.

"I've got him Dad!" Dean spoke at the same time; he stroked the trigger as the broken branch rolled under his boot. He knew immediately he would be a little off target, thought he would still hit the chest area of the Wendigo.

It wasn't a Wendigo.

The large buck that leapt out of the brush staggered and was gone, crashing and blundering its way brokenly through the underbrush.

John swore.

In the space between one heartbeat and the next Dean remembered that Sam was gone; there was no longer a third person behind them, covering their backs.

The Wendigo hit them from the rear.

John reacted first. He turned and shouldered Dean put of its path.

Dean stumbled backwards; a tree trunk caught him behind the knees and he went sprawling as the giant shriveled form of the Wendigo charged at John.

The realization that Sam wasn't there with them hit home again, hurting like a bitch even in that moment of action. It took his breath a little, slowing him as he staggered back to his feet.

Certain his boy was safe, John went to make a shot but the Wendigo ripped the shotgun out of his hands.

"DAD!" Dean launched himself over the fallen tree.

John was knocked sideways by a fierce blow that sent him spinning off like a rag doll. He landed on his shoulder and tried to roll with the impact.

Dean's snap shot took the Wendigo in the torso.

Cutting its losses, it moved with preternatural speed and darted off into the cover of the brush.

"Dad!" Dean slid to a halt on his knees. "Are you okay?" He reached out anxiously. "Dad!"

John grunted and pulled himself up, none too steadily. The line of blood that ran down his forehead and into his eye was easy to notice, even in the dark.

"You're hurt, let me see!"

"Don't worry about me." John snapped, wiping at the blood with the back of his arm and wincing. "Draw the damn protection symbols I showed you."

When Dean didn't immediately spring into action, his tone turned a bit harsher. "Do it now in case it comes back."

Dean backed off quickly and began kicking aside debris and drawing symbols in the dirt with a shaky hand. _'Crap,'_ he thought, his heart hammering with reaction. It was a rookie mistake. He knew it.

John didn't give him much time to contemplate. "Make the circle 10 feet in diameter."

"Okay." Dean moved to the next symbol, risking a guilty glance at John.

"And get your ass inside it!" John reached for his now mangled Remington and swore. "Goddammit!"

"Ummm... Dad?" Dean offered his own rifle.

John grabbed it, rose to his feet stiffly and covered Dean as he drew the overlapping lines.

Dean fumbled, made a mistake in the last symbol and had to start again. He felt so strung out emotionally that even the familiar symbols were a challenge.

"Hurry up, Dean." John felt uneasy again.

"Doing my best here, Dad!"

"Well you're best isn't good enough! Hurry up!" _His best. What was this? Fucking kindergarten?_

Dean straightened up, the last symbol complete. He had no idea what to say to put this right.

Somewhere behind them the buck could be heard thrashing, clearly laid out on its side, calling a low whistling bark.

"Get your ass in the circle now. "

"Do y'want me to finish it off?" Dean's glanced towards the noise, feeling guilty.

John seized Dean's jacket collar and set down his rifle. "Fuck the deer. You okay?" He looked his son over appraisingly.

"Yeah?" Dean's eyes widened, surprised. The tone of concern was unexpected in the circumstances.

"You sure? I saw you take a spill." The gash at John's hairline was dripping again.

"I'm fine! _You're_ bleeding… let me see!" Dean pulled his father's head forward, gave the cut a quick once-over. "It should be okay without stitches." He wiped around the cut with his cuff, wincing a little. This was his fault too. "I'm sorry, Dad," he muttered apologetically. "I, er… I screwed up."

John glared and shook his head. "Get your dirty sleeve out of my cut before you give me sepsis."

Dean took a half-step backwards, anxiety written plainly on his face.

"What the hell was that back there?"

His son opened his mouth, found he had no words to explain and shut it again, shrugging.

"Don't you shrug at me." John's eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare shrug at me. What was that, huh? Not only did you not have my back, you opened fire on something before we even knew what it was... Good thing we took out the killer DEER."

Vulnerability hardened into resolve. "It won't happen again. Sir." The green eyes were huge, pleading. "I've got your back Dad!"

"It better NOT happen again... No. _No,_ you do _not_ have my back. "You've been scattered and unfocused since we got here."

Dean flinched at the tone of disapproval. His hands began to shake again.

John rotated his injured shoulder with a grimace. The adrenaline had begun to ebb and the pain set in.

His son looked at him with concern. "Dad? Are you hurt?"

"You wanna tell me what is going on with you? Of course I'm hurt. I just got thrown seven feet. Where's the med kit?"

"Nothin' is going on with me." An expression of horror slipped across Dean's face. He swore under his breath. "Umm, in the Impala?"

"In the Impala?" John didn't even know how to react at the incompetency. "Are you kidding me right now?"

Dean shook his head wordlessly, feeling useless and about ten years old. Dammit, he was twenty-two!

Incensed further by the head shake, John set his jaw. Dean could feel the anger in the set of the broad shoulders. In the tone. In the very energy his father was radiating.

"I wish you were young enough to take my belt to... what are you doing? Are you trying to get us killed?"

It was as though the stress, trauma, hurt and exhaustion of the last few weeks suddenly slammed into Dean with the force of a piledriver. Anger flickered and then flamed hot.

"I forgot it, okay Dad! FORGOT IT! But hey, it's okay to forget things in this family, isn't it! You managed to forget a son quick enough." His voice deepened into a shout as the anger and frustration spilt out. "BELT! You wanna take your belt to me! Just fuckin' do it! I don't care!"

John grabbed him by the collar, pulled him up onto his toes and shook him roughly. "Knock it off!" he snarled.

Dean handed him off, scowling.

"You knock it off right now!"

It was too much. The exhaustion, the frustration at himself, the thought that maybe Sam would've come back if his Dad hadn't said… Dean exploded. "OH FUCK YOU! SIR!"

The words were not even fully out off his tongue before John backhanded him across the mouth without even thinking.

The blow was hard. He'd forgotten just how much his father pulled his punches when they were training. Dean landed on his ass in the dirt.

John loomed over him. "You get control of yourself NOW. This is no time to fall apart, with a fucking wendigo eating people out there!"

There was pure venom in the response. "Control, that's a big word in your world, huh, DAD!"

The shock on John's face would almost have been comical if the circumstances had been different. He paused mid-lecture.

"What did you just say to me?"

Dean leapt up, brushing off leaves, far too angry to bother about the Wendigo right now. He'd never spoken back to his father before. Never. Couldn't seem to stop the words spitting out of his mouth now. "CONTROL! John friggin' Winchester, the control freak!"

"You insolent, self centered Sonofabitch!" John snapped as he wiped the blood out of his eyes again, avoiding the gash.

"What! I'm self-centred! It was your fucking mission from God that drove your own son away!"

 _"Sam?"_ John said, a note of incredulity in his voice. "Is that what this whole thing is about? _Sam?"_

"Yeah, Dad. _Sam._ Remember him? Huh? Floppy hair, big puppy dog eyes, remember the one?"

"What the hell does he have to do with this mission?"

It was like a blow to the solar plexus. He just didn't understand how his Dad didn't get it. "Forget it." Dean's voice was hoarse. "Just goddamn forget it."

"You forget it! You get your shit together right now! We are not having a screaming smack down fight in the middle of a forest at 3 am!"

"Like we're ever anywhere better. Let's finish this, get the fuck outta here!" Dean snarled over his shoulder as he stomped out of the circle.

"Dean!" His father warned. "Don't you dare!"

Dean ignored him, forcing his way through the brush to the sound of thrashing. There was the sound of a shot and then silence.

He reappeared at the edge of the brush, glowering. Turning his head around to survey the landscape. "Come on you fugly sonofabitch!" He gestured angrily at the trees.

"Dean! Dean Winchester!"

"What Dad? Huh? Afraid you're gonna lose another son!" The words were bitter.

"This is a direct order!"

"Screw your order." It was only a mutter, but it carried into the circle. Dean's expression was thunderous. John's eldest had just flipped him the verbal finger.

John was on him in a second, slamming him into the ground, pinning him with an armlock, his knee in his back.

Winded, Dean struggled half-heartedly and went limp, dropping his face into the leaf litter.

 _"Stop it!"_ John's face was pained as he kept his knee in the small of his son's back. "Dean, what is wrong with you?"

He paused, his tone softer. "You're going to get us both ki-" His sentence cut off with a cry as a sharp blow tossed him completely sideways.

Dean flipped over onto his back in time to see a huge Wendigo looming over John, it lashed out with cat-like speed.

John yelled out as the claws ripped through his jacket and shirt and dug into his chest.

"Dad!" Dean launched himself bodily at the beast, tackling it from the rear.

The Wendigo whirled around, realized it wasn't going to dislodge the young man and backed into a tree, pinning Dean with its weight.

John staggered to his feet and dove for it.

"Get off my son!" It was a snarled threat of sheer malice, laced with all the protective instinct of a parent for his child.

Dean wrenched himself free and threw himself at the fallen rifle, trying to get a clear shot.

The Wendigo had gotten it's claws into John's flesh again and swung him around, dragging him through the leaves. John scrambled for a purchase on the moving ground. "The flare, Dean! The flare!"

The monster picked him up and slammed him into the ground and John cried out with something that sounded somewhere between pain and fear.

Dean grabbed the first weapon he could find and smashed a rock down on the Wendigo's head, then snatched up the flare gun, firing it into its chest as it reared up away from John. Flames burst inside its ribcage and it fell away, shrieking.

Dean dragged John clear of the flames. The rending tears partly visible under the torn fabric across his father's torso were horrific.

"Is it caught?" John panted. "Is it on fire?"

"Yeah Dad, it's burning." He fumbled a field dressing out of John's pockets and tore it open, almost vomiting when he saw the full extent of the wounds.

 **tbc... sending out a special thanks to my brilliant pal and co-writer, Mariamo, for taking the time to format this one. She did the lion's share of the formatting and editing work for _Hell: Next Turn on the Right._ If you get the time, drop us a review. We love to hear from you.**

 **Shameless self-promotion: If you like what you see here and are so inclined, check out Mariamo's _Found_ and celinenaville's _Hexes (Redux)_ for our current individual works in progress.**


	2. Chapter 2

Dean _dragged John clear of the flames. The tears across his father's torso were horrific._

 _"Is it caught? Is it on fire?"_

 _"Yeah Dad, it's burning." He fumbled a field dressing out of John's pockets and tore it open, almost vomiting when he saw the full extent of the wounds._

* * *

John's handsome face twisted into a grimace as he struggled to raise his head and look. "You sure?" He panted.

"Yeah, it's down. Keep still, you're bleeding!"

"We need to be back inside the circle." John kicked impotently at the ground in an attempt to get himself back onto his feet.

Dean took his father carefully under the arms; dragging him into the circle, a grunt of effort bursting through his lips. John was heavy.

John cried out in something akin to a half sob. A sound his eldest had never heard from him before.

"I'm sorry!" Dean's voice was almost frantic as he pressed the dressing down, trying to staunch the blood flow from the deepest wound.

"I think there's still another one out there. I'm pretty sure of it." John grasped for his son's jacket sleeve and tried to pull himself upright once more. "We aren't safe."

"Okay." Dean shuffled around on his knees, making sure to keep a calming hand on his father as he repaired the circle. "Stay down Dad, please."

John rolled his head fitfully sideways and grimaced in frustration, his white teeth bared in a growl. "Don't have time for this." He ground out as if bleeding to death were merely an inconvenience. "Dean, you okay?"

"I'm fine! You're not okay, let me deal with that!"

John coughed a little, the spasm to his diaphragm pushing his stomach muscles against the torn open skin and before he finally went quiet.

Dean continued to apply pressure, trying to stop the life blood that was leaking out of John's torso. He tied off a dressing over the worst wound. His father's silence was alarming.

"Dad? Dad!"

John's dark lashes fluttered and he opened his eyes, responding to his kid's distress. "I need to get up, Dean." He said, not seeming to understand the extent of his injury through his haze of shock. "Get me up."

"No! You're not okay, man!" There was a sob caught up with the words. "Just lay down, I'm gonna take care of it!"

The dressings were all used up; Dean tore off the bottom of his t-shirt and packed it into the remaining wounds.

John tried to elbow him off. "There's still one out there. The mate. The one I hit earlier."

"DAD! Please, just stay still. I'll get it, you're gonna bleed out if you keep this up. I KNOW!" Dean shot to his feet, scanning the bushes for any sign of movement.

John patted the ground next to his body, his hand blindly groping for the flare gun. He found it and loaded a flare into it with shaking, bloody hands.

"Dammit, I've got it, give it to me." Dean took the flare gun out of John's hands, shocked at the amount of blood on his father's clothing and the ground beneath him. "We need to get out of here."

John's bafflement was clear on his features as the weapon was snatched from him.

Seeing his father's confusion, Dean spoke slowly, clearly. "We need to go. I'm gonna pull you up now. Okay? We'll get to the cabin. The cabin has supplies."

"We can't leave the circle." John protested weakly. "Not safe."

Dean slung the rifle on his back, stuck the flare gun into his waistband.

"We gotta go and I'm not leavin' you here."

He tried to lift John.

John cried out at the movement and let his legs go limp, a dead weight. An immovable dead weight that outweighed his son by about 20 pounds.

Dean gasped, panting with effort. "Uhh… Dad, try please!" He could feel tears pricking at the back of his eyes, blinked them away. "I'm NOT leaving you here!"

John tried to get his feet under him, leaning precariously against his son, somehow understanding the gravity of the situation by the nearly frantic tone of voice. His muscles wouldn't respond and as he shifted his stomach tore and began to bleed again.

"Crap!" Finally Dean managed to get John upright, more or less. He staggered under the weight, recovered his balance and began to half carry him in the direction of the cabin.

John cried out again, brow furrowed in agony.

Pleading now, his heart hammering with adrenaline, Dean panted. "Come on, just keep going. Please just keep moving."

"Son," a panted breath. "It's a half mile hike. Neither one of us are going to make that."

"You are gonna make it! Dammit! Don't you give up on me!" He was hauling John bodily along, fear lending him strength.

John's head lolled sideways, limply.

Dean nearly went down as his father's full weight dragged at him. "Keep movin' you old bastard!"

He snapped his head up weakly, resisting his son's pull. "Wait." Before Dean could react, his hand came down and fished into the waistband of Dean's jeans, pulling the flare gun and shooting into the darkness. There was a flash of blazing light as his shot hit the other Wendigo and it erupted into flames.

John swayed, his legs buckling entirely.

"Way to go Dad." Dean managed to gasp out, holding onto him in some sort of crazy, desperate hug, trying to stop him going to the forest floor.

His father's dark eyes rolled up into the back of his head as he began to lose consciousness.

Dean forced him up against a tree, barely able to take the weight. He freed an arm to pat at his father's face.

"C'mon! You've gotta keep goin'. We're nearly there."

John's eyes flicked open, glazed. "Son?"

Dean's breath was sobbing in his throat as he dragged John on towards the cabin. He could hear someone repeating "I'm sorry Dad, I'm sorry." Over and over again. He thought it might be himself but didn't seem to be able to stop.

"It's starting to hurt really bad, kid." John's hand went to his stomach, his face contorted into a grimace.

They slid to the floor together, landing in an untidy sprawl. Dean pushed his father's hand onto the worst wound.

"Hold tight."

He looked around frantically; the beaten-down trail to the cabin was already in sight but he wasn't going to be able to get John back onto his feet. Maybe he could slide him along? Dean leapt up and kicked violently at two small saplings until they broke off. He ripped them free and made a makeshift stretcher by sliding one into each arm of his jacket.

John's forehead was beginning to bead with sweat, despite the cool night air. "Feels like Nam... hit by snipers near Cam Li."

"Oh shit, Dad. Don't say that!" Dean pulled John's upper torso on the little stretcher and began to haul him along the trail. "Keep talking, man."

From behind him weakly, "My buddy Jake...yeah...he didn't make it out."

"You're gonna make it out." Dean put as much conviction in his tone as his panting allowed.

"Had nightmares for a few years. Used to see him all torn up." John's breath caught on a groan of pain.

Dean kept going, the cabin now in sight.

"Woke up your mom so many nights..." the dark voice trailed off.

The revelation was painful, as it inevitably was when John occasionally let slip something about his life with Mary. For a second Dean didn't realize his father had gone quiet.

The silence remained for too long.

"DAD!" Dean slapped the stubbled cheek. There was no response. Again, harder, feeling the rasp of the beard under his palm. . "DAD! Speak to me!"

John's lashes fluttered. "Huh?"

They reached the cabin steps just as Dean fell to his knees. He staggered upright immediately, panting with effort, tears tracking unnoticed down his cheeks.  
"Don't you die! Don't you dare die!"

"Never wanted you boys in a war." The voice was faint then suddenly stronger as John's face scrunched up on misery. "Here you are... I put you here."

"It doesn't matter… You DIDN'T… Wasn't your fault." The words were clipped, forced out between gasps for breath as Dean pulled John up the steps. He kicked open the door and they both collapsed over the threshold.

 **Thank you for reading and thanks for the kind words on the last chapter! Drop us a review if you get a chance!**


	3. Chapter 3

John lay quiet and still as if all the fight had drained out of him.

Dean hauled his father onto the rickety bunk, adrenaline giving him a surge of strength even though his muscles were shaking. He rummaged around frantically until he found the First Aid kit. "Dad! Stay awake… just stay awake."

Dean began to clean the wounds, swabbing them gently with antiseptic, trying to see the full extent of the damage. He kept pressure on the worst gash with one hand, the pinched feeling in his own face matching the white shock on his father's.

John was still bleeding in rivulets that ran down his sides. His shirt was soaked, his entire torso red like a two-year old had gone mad with finger paint.

"Dad." There was no answer. "John Winchester!" He tried, louder.

Still no movement.

Dean could feel tears beginning to leak down his cheeks. His Dad was going into shock.

"Fuck!" He slapped John, hard, across the cheek, his own breathing little pants of distress. "Fuck! Dad!"

Dean readied a needle, threw some antiseptic wash over the deepest wound.

John gasped a breath and his eyes opened at the sting of the peroxide. "Dean?"

The cotton and needle slipped through the skin, leaving a line of neat little stitches despite Dean's shaking hands. He was crying quite hard now, seemed unable to stop, a little breathless litany of "…don't leave me too, please, please don't leave me, fuck please..." running unchecked from his lips.

John heard it and he put his hand shakily to Dean's neck. His brows furrowed in concern. "Hey..."

"Dad…" It was barely a whimper as Dean kept cleaning and stitching, tears trailing down and dripping off his chin. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it."

"Kiddo," John's voice was compassionate, paternal, even through his weakness. He pressed the back of his fingers to his son's temple before he dropped his hand, wincing, his body arching under Dean's hand.

Years of training enabled the completion of the stitching, the dressing of the wounds; Dean's hands operating almost by themselves as he fought to regain control.

John's breath came in rasping grunts and then finally in desperate pained gasps.

"C'mon Dad, it's gonna be okay." He stroked John's head gently. "Stay with me… breathe."

His father groaned in obvious distress. Dean wasn't sure if he'd ever seen him look so helpless.

"It hurts, I know. Try and breathe through it, breathe with me…" Dean made his own breaths loud, hoping his father would tune in to the rhythm. He scrabbled through the First Aid Kit, found pain meds.

"C'mon Dad, swallow these." He pumped some water from the sink into a small tin cup.

John turned his head away, almost petulantly.

Desperation made Dean's voice sharp. "Just take 'em Dad, they'll make you feel better, c'mon, for me, please."

He prised open John's mouth and stuck the tablets on his tongue.

The older man choked on them.

Dean supported his head, tipping a little water into his mouth. "Swallow, dammit!"

Finally John's adams apple bobbed as he took a long full swallow. His brow furrowed, dark eyebrows pulled into a look of confusion. "Dean?"

"Yeah. Yeah I'm here."

John took hold of his son's forearm, gripping with a surprising amount of strength.

Dean put his hand over John's, relishing the contact even as he tried to loosen the fingers digging into his skin. He stared at John, all big eyes and wet lashes.

"What...what was that back there?"

Almost too shocked to comprehend the question, Dean stuttered. "Wha… What?"

"You..." the baritone voice rasped before he swallowed. "... fell apart on me."

Dean looked away in shame, flushing. "I'm here now, Dad."

Johns eyes fluttered closed. "...Wanna lecture you...Too damned beat up to do it."

"Don't… not now." Dean's mouth twisted as he fought with his emotions. "I can't…"

John went very quiet and still.

There was an instant flare of panic in Dean's chest. "Hey! Dad?"

John's mouth quirked up in an almost smirk. "I'm fine."

His son gave him a puzzled look.

"Just can't look at your goofy face anymore." His eyes remained closed but his father smiled wide enough to give him a flash of dimples.

"Huh?" Dean stared at him, bewildered.

"It's a joke, son."

"Oh… Uh…" Dean's eyes were wide. "Not funny Dad. Thought you were gonna die."

"Still might."

Dean's expression crumpled for a second, then he wrenched it back to something resembling control. "You're tougher than that old man."

"Keep telling yourself that."

Suddenly exhausted, Dean dropped to his knees by the bed, leaning his forehead onto the blanket by his father's arm.

John's hand found its way into the young man's shortly cropped hair. He stroked him gently, tenderly. "I'm sorry son."

Dean let his hand creep up, fingers touching the fabric of John's jacket. The words were muffled by the musty blanket. "What for?"

"I should've pulled you off this hunt. It's my fault."

Dean's head shot up. "What! No, Dad. We're a team." He looked away, shame plain on his features. "It's my fault; I let you down."

"We're not a team if one of us is barely holding it together. I kept pushing you and pushing you and I should have known better." There was a weighty pause. "Dean, you almost got us both killed."

"I'm trying!" It was an anguished shout as Dean's eyes flooded again. "I am. But it's just so friggin' hard." He bit down hard on his lip, trying not to break down completely again.

John's hand was still petting him. "What's hard, son?" There was no judgment to his voice.

"Sam." Just one small word. One massive word.

"He didn't want us." The words were bitter. "He had the choice. I'm happy for him, I am, really… but, but he left me, us… and you told him never to come back!"  
Dean was shaking, suddenly a lost little boy, looking to his Dad for explanation.

John opened his eyes to study him. He paused, seemed to be thinking, weighing his words even through the fog of pain.

A hoarse whisper interrupted his thoughts. "Was it my fault?"

"What?"

"I didn't know what to do… I should've told you before… and then it all went to shit and he left. I should've done something!"

John wasn't following. "Didn't tell me before what?"

"That he was gonna go. He'd had his letter and everything, but you were both so pissed, fighting all the time, I didn't know what to do!"

There was a measured sigh, then a gruff response that was all John. "That's water under the bridge... That's neither here nor there and it's not going to help us now."

"You're not pissed at me? That I didn't tell you?"

"Right now I'm here bleeding out in a cabin... so I just don't have the energy for it right now, kid." John's tone was flat and weary. "It's not that I don't care."

Dean checked the dressings carefully, gave a huff of relief. "The bleeding has stopped."

John touched Dean's cheek.

"Do you miss him, Dad."

"What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know." Dean shook his head a little, looking resigned. "The truth I guess."

John looked away and swallowed, his attention focused on the far wall. "Do I miss the sweet little boy that used to cuddle up on my lap some nights?" He gave his sad, reflective whiskey smile. The only one Dean really got to see anymore. "Yeah. Yeah, I do. But I've missed him for a long, long time." His tone trailed off and changed into something hard. "Do I miss the snark and the anger and the constant bickering? No. Don't miss that at all."

For a moment Dean looked as though he might protest, but the words made sense. He accepted them with a sigh and dropped his forehead back on the bed, massaging at his temples.

Then suddenly, quietly there came a confession in an undertone. "Miss you most."

Puzzled green eyes looked up. "But I'm here, Dad."

"No you're not. Not really."

"I'm right here, I'll always be here. I'll never go running off. Why would you say that!"

John's tone was calm. "You're not you since he left."

Dean frowned. "Yeah I am. This is me, right here. I'm not going anywhere."

John met his son's distressed with a bit of detached amusement. "Fuck I wish you were a kid again sometimes."

"Huh?"

He gave his whiskey grin again. " ...easier then."

"What?"

"Patch you up." John squeezed his arm affectionately. "Pull you into my lap. Give you a lollipop... Easier that way."

Dean snorted, some of the weight of anxiety lifting from his face. "I'm not sitting on your lap now, old timer."

John's next words put the fear right back. "I think I should give you some time off."

"No! No, I'm good. We're a team, right?" A look of horror slid across Dean's face. "You're not gonna go off huntin' without me?"

His father's tone turned serious again-swinging back to forth from tender to stern in a way that always confused his boys. "Look, You fell apart Dean. We were in a combat situation and you completely fell apart. If that happened to any of my men in the Marines, we would pull them right off the mission."

The last dregs of color leaked away from Dean's face as fear shadowed his expressive eyes.

"Don't do that, please! I'll make it up to you. I'm good, I'll prove it!" He jumped to his feet, full of nervous energy. "You can trust me Dad." There was no hiding the plea in the words.

"Hey." The stern tone that must be obeyed again. "Calm down."

Dean's knee was jittering, his eyes wide. "We don't need to talk about this now, let's just get you better okay?"

"You're anxious." John said calmly, observing the train wreck before him.

"Yeah, damn right I'm anxious." Dean rubbed a hand over his face, dragged his fingers through his hair. "I'm friggin' scared alright! You're gonna leave too, aren't you?"

"I'm not leaving you, Dean."

He never thought he'd hear such a broken sound coming from his son's mouth. "I don't have anybody else Dad."

John let out a long, weary sigh. "You're emotional right now. I get it."

Dean tried, hard, to shore up his expression, knowing by the look on hid father's face that he was failing miserably.

"It's okay, son." John soothed then winced, shoulder twitching. "I'm not going anywhere. I can't fucking WALK right now."

"Yeah, okay." Dean's eyes were pools of devastation. "I'm gonna get you out in the morning, okay?" He turned away, hands clenching, with a barely audible mutter. "Then you can up and leave me, huh?"

 **TBC...**

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	4. Chapter 4

Dean kept his back to John, staring at the rough logs of the cabin wall. His worst fears were all coming true.

"Hey." The voice was calm and assertive.

His son's head was down, shoulders tight with tension.

"You listen to me. I would only pull you out of the field for your own good." John rolled his head sideways to observe Dean's reaction. "Take a breather. Get your head on straight." He drew in a ragged breath, feeling sick. "I'm not leaving you. Find a girl. Get a drink. Whatever you need to do to get it back together."

Dean turned slowly to face the bed. He stared at John from a face that seemed frozen into immobility.

"Whatever you say, Dad. 'Cause we both know you're gonna go. Sure, you might stick around for a bit…" He shrugged, smiled in a self-deprecating way. "…but sooner or later you're gonna go."

"Why are you so certain of that?"

There was a shadow of something in the green eyes. "Why would you stay? Doesn't matter anyhow."

John could almost see the walls of deflection slamming up into place.

"I'll be okay." The walls did not prevent the edge of desperation in Dean's tone. He shrugged again. "I'll be okay."

John waggled his fingers, beckoned him closer. "Come here, son."

Dean didn't move, a stubborn set to his shoulders.

His father's brow pulled down into a frown of disapproval. "Are we gonna pull this again? Are you Sam today?"

"I'm not Sam." It was said with a little sigh.

"Can you stop acting like him then, please?"

"Sure Dad." There was a tiny flicker of guilt and then all signs of emotion were gone, clamped down as Dean tried to move the conversation onto safer ground.  
"You warm enough there? There's some wood if you want me to light the burner?"

"I'm fine." John said. He moved his arm again, the effort monumental. "Now come here."

Dean continued, not quite meeting his father's gaze. "I'll, er… I'll go get the Impala in the morning, get it as close to the cabin as I can, okay?"  
He walked slowly over to the bed, clearly unwilling to approach. "What can I get ya?"

John cupped his hand behind Dean's head and pulled him down close, laid a gentle kiss on his son's forehead.

"Dad!" The unexpected action smashed through the defensive walls. Shock and embarrassed pleasure warred openly on Dean's face.

"I love you." John wheezed. "You know that?"

It was the last thing Dean was ever expecting to hear, especially now. His wide eyes and the visible shake in his legs showed how easily the words had stripped away his defenses, leaving him vulnerable, exposed.

John watched him, face blanched with a pallor and tears standing in his eyes. He blinked before a few fell.

"Dad?" Dean knelt down and thumbed them away shakily. "You okay?"

John flushed a little, almost embarrassed at the gesture even through his pained fog.

It wasn't something Winchesters ever did, this statement of feelings.

Dean struggled, managed to whisper. "Love you too Dad."

"Good," John whispered. "That's all I ever need to know...Wish Sammy did too, but can't win em all, huh?"

Dean's voice was stronger now; he was on firmer ground. "Sammy loves you. He… he's just really pissed at us right now."

He gave his Dad a quick, awkward hug, not sure how to make it manly without the option of slapping him heartily on the back, but finding he didn't really care, not after everything that had happened that day.

John met the hug with barely any strength. "I am in horrible fucking pain."

Dean pulled away carefully. "I know. I can't give you any more painkillers."

He pinched the bridge of his nose, speaking slowly as he thought. "Maybe I can get a signal back on top of the ridge, enough to call for help?"

"Do me a favor and don't you ever disobey a direct order on a hunt again, okay?"

The abrupt shift in his father's approach was a shock. "I won't. Sir." Misery painted Dean's cheeks pink.

John paused, back in control of his own emotion. Considered their options. "...Think I'm actually stable. I like your first plan of going for the Impala in the morning better."

"I'm really sorry."

John looked at him sharply. "Sorry isn't going to put my guts back in. So just don't do it again okay?" The vulnerability was gone, replaced with a harsh no-nonsense demeanor.

The tone was such a contrast, the mood so altered, that Dean felt as though he'd been slapped around the face. He flinched, busying his hands by clearing up the medical kit.

"Yes Sir!" Dean checked the dressings quickly and dropped a blanket over John's legs, studiously avoiding eye contact.

John's eyes closed, and his breathing evened out a little as he was overtaken by exhaustion. He drifted off to sleep.

 **Sorry for the short chapter. We promise to follow up with a longer one soon...like the end of the week. If you'd like to see our other WIPs just visit our profiles, Mariamo and celinenaville. We both have pieces in progress.** ** **Seeing Double and Hexes (Redux) respectively.** Thank you for all the reviews!**


	5. Chapter 5

John's rebuke was gruff and unexpected after the long silence. "Dean, will you quit pacing?"

Dean spun on his heel.

"Dad! You're awake!" The relief was evident.

"Yeah," he muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "Hard to sleep with you wandering around."

"Uh… sorry. How you feelin'?"

"Bout as good as I look." John gave him a critical look. "How are you?"

"You're the one that's hurt. I need to change those dressings." Dean approached purposefully, medical kit in hand.

John groaned and waved him away. "Dean, I'm fine." He muttered. "Leave me be for a minute."

"Can I get you some painkillers? Drink?" His son moved around edgily, sure there was something he needed to do.

"I'm fine." He snapped, then seeing Dean's expression he added weakly. "So...not exactly the way I pictured camping trips with my boy, huh? There was always more fishing and less disembowelment."

"Yeah." Dean managed a grin, insecurity still showing in his eyes but curiosity winning over. "Fishing, huh?"

"Yeah." John shifted again, wincing at a sudden stab of pain. "Always liked fishing. We've never actually gone much have we?"

"No… Not unless you count the possessed guppies."

John snorted at the joke. "Mean little fuckers." Something in his eyes turned soft and sad as his voice trailed off.

Dean squinted at him, raising an eyebrow. "I'm not sure I can see you fishing, just sittin' there."

John gathered himself once more, seemed to lose the vulnerability again. "I used to once in awhile. I'm not all action, you know." He smirked, dimples showing with a flash of white teeth. "You don't believe me?"

Dean shrugged, uncomfortably aware of how much his father resembled Sam in that moment. "Not the Dad I know."

John sucked in a pained breath. "Can I have a drink? Damn stomach is killing me."

"Yeah." The tin mug exchanged hands. "I really need to check those stitches." Dean was already popping painkillers from their blister packs.

John looked disappointedly at the contents. "Meant something a little stronger than water, kid." He downed the painkillers with a grimace.

Dean huffed. "Looks like they're all out of Jack… probably not the best idea with a gut wound anyhow." He palmed his father's forehead, checking for fever. "You're kinda warm."

"Don't feel great. There's nothing to drink in this whole cabin?"

"I guess not. The hipflask is in the Impala." Dean craned his head to peer out of the narrow window. "It's getting light. You ready for me to fetch her closer?"

"I'm sure there's something in the impala. It's quite a hike, son." John closed his eyes, the dark lashes fluttering against the pallor of his skin. "Stay here. I just need some rest."

"We can't stay too long, you need a doctor. Those wounds… they're…"

Dean tucked his chin down, voicing the thought that had been crashing around his head while John was unconscious. "I nearly got you killed Dad."

John ignored it. "What's a damn doctor gonna do? You stitched me up fine." He paused and his voice caught on a hitch of pain. "Might need some antibiotics is all."

It was the expected response. Dean sat carefully on the edge of the bed, his fingers fussing a little at the pile of the blanket. He felt like he could do with downing a shot or two of whiskey himself; hell, he could do with downing a goddamn bottle.

"Blood transfusion would be nice but I think I'm okay." His father continued stoically.

Dean flinched, his face miserable. "Just let me check the dressings, then we can get you outta here."

John unfolded his arms and placed them at his side so that Dean could examine checked the wounds, cleaning and redressing them one by one, his face getting a little paler as each wound came into view. There were only two unused dressings left. Not enough for another change.

It was a whisper. "I'm really sorry, Dad."

John winced as Dean's trained hands worked on him, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. At last he cried out, body arching away instinctively.

"Whoa, sshh…" Dean wiped the sweat from John's head with his sleeve. "I'm here, Dad. Take it easy."

John slammed his eyes shut, trying to rein in the pain. The muscle in his jaw jumped as he tried to compose himself.

Dean watched him anxiously.

"I'm okay." John took a deep ragged breath.

Guilt dragged the words over Dean's lips. "My fault."

It took a moment for John to be able to speak. As usual, he bludgeoned Dean with the truth. "Well..." he opened his eyes. "Can't say it isn't."

There was a sharp intake of breath. A pause. "Yeah," Dean said, very quietly. "It usually is."

"I keep thinking you're about old enough for solo hunts and then something like this happens and I'm not so sure."

Hurt pulled at Dean's expression. "I've been old enough a while Dad." He looked away, bitterness in his tone. "Least I won't be able to get anyone else hurt."

"Yeah," John said sharply, "Well getting YOURSELF hurt isn't acceptable either."

Dean snorted; he sounded suddenly pissed. "Years, years of this crap… I have your back every time, as far back as I can remember. First taking care of Sammy, then hunting. Every time we move I'm like, yeah, okay, Dad. Every time we have to leave friggin' everything behind us. Even when Sam… I stayed. One fuck up, just ONE and suddenly I'm shelved."

John raised a dark eyebrow and listened.

Angry green eyes met John's in open challenge.

"So that's it now, is it? I'm not good enough for you now. Well, if that's the way you want it, old man…"

As suddenly as it had begun, the anger seemed to dissipate. Dean's voice faltered and he looked away, a lost expression stealing over his tired face.

Finally, John spoke. "Where is this coming from?"

"Is that all I'm worth to you? A soldier?" His son's jaw tightened. "Pull me out of the field! Are you kiddin' me! I've never not been in the field!"

"Hey," John's tone was a little sharp.

Dean glared at him. "This is how it starts, huh?"

"How what starts?" His father was baffled by the outburst. "Cause all I see starting is you acting like Sam."

Dean rubbed his head, looking frustrated. "I'm not like Sam. Sam, he knows where he's going with his life."

"You're being stubborn and throwing temper tantrums at me left and right. How is that NOT like Sam?"

The response was quiet. "Seems I'm a bit more like you than you thought, huh Dad? Just forget it. I'm tired, you're hurt. Let's just not get into this."

John took umbrage immediately _"Excuse me?"_

"Yeah." Dean scowled. "Like YOU, Dad!"

"Me what?!" John raised his voice, starting to lose his temper a little even through his haze of pain.

His son wasn't backing down. "You're stubborn. It's John Winchester's way or nothing!"

"I'M in charge, Dean." How his father could be commanding in the shape he was in, Dean would never know. He pointed angrily at his son. "NOT you! Not Sam. ME."

"I follow orders, y'KNOW I do!"

"Oh really?!" Johns voice had risen into a yell. "Then why am I lying here with my guts ripped open? Huh? Tell me that, you stubborn ass!"

Dean lifted his chin, looking at his father through slitted eyes. "You're just never gonna let that one go are you? Well maybe you're right. Maybe you would be better off without me, holding you back, dragging you down." The bravado was undermined by the look of fear on the youthful face.

John was still pissed. He leaned up on his elbows. "That isn't what I've said at all. If you ever LISTENED to me, you know that I want to talk to you, Dean." The lid on his father's emotion was slipping off with his anger. "I want to really talk to you and you make it impossible!" He took a moment to breathe after the shout and added. "Just like your brother did."

"So talk then, Dad. I'm here, captive audience, got nowhere better to go."

Johns voice was calmer as he got control of his temper. "What about your behavior says that I shouldn't pull you out of the field? Is that what this is about...Sam?"

"Huh." Dean looked at the floor, shaking his head a little. "It's your decision. Sir." He took a deep breath, raised his eyes again, staring at John through his lashes. "I had a bad day. Dad. I fucked up." The full bottom lip quivered. "I let you down, forgot my training. It won't happen again."

John sighed, fell back. "Dean."

"You gonna write me off?" The brave front was cracking, misery leaking into Dean's expression. "You hunting with someone else from now on? Am I gonna come in one day and find you're gone, a little note on the table?"

John looked away from him, gaze turned inward and unfocused, calling up a memory. "Singer warned me. I should've listened to the old bastard."

"Huh?"

"He told me that Sam leaving was going to twist you sideways." John gave a small snoring huff distinctly reminiscent of Sam. "I told him he was an idiot and that as long as we had each other we would be fine...But you're not fine. You're not even close to fine."

"You've still got me Dad!"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Your whole life you've been my good boy. My dependable boy...The one I can count on." He looked at Dean measuringly, somehow assertive and calm even through his discomfort. "And now, now I don't know what I've got with me."

That hurt. That really hurt. "You can count on me." Dean's voice was hoarse.

"You've always been able to carry the weight and I see that you can't anymore."

"What! No! NO! Don't say that!" He was incapable of suppressing his horrified expression.

John shook his head, his deep voice not unkind. "And I'm not angry at you for it, son." He noticed his boy's look of betrayal and slowed his speech, choosing his words. "I'm not...I just...I'm sorry it took me so long to see it is all."

"See what! I'm okay!" Dean moved forward a little, tense, almost vibrating with tension.

John winced and tried to sit up on his elbows. "Son."

"Don't do this. Don't push me out."

"I'm not pushing you out." John winced and studied Dean's face again. "You can't seem to understand that right now?"

"What's to understand?" The words were ragged. "We were a family… Sam's gone… next thing I'll be booking a single room, hunting monsters alone." Dean's eyes seemed to lose focus as he stared at something John couldn't see, perhaps some vision of an empty future.

"Dean, I know I've been a hard ass on you your whole life. But you know why? I mean do you really truly understand why?"

The answer was robotic. "Gotta be ready, be prepared. Trust no-one…"

"No!" The answer was dismayed. "Because I'm trying to save your life! I wanted you and your brother's training to be so ingrained that when you were in the field- you don't even think, just react on the training. That lesson never stuck with Sam. I could never get it through his head. I thought you had potential. I thought that I did that with you, but what happened yesterday showed me that that's not true."

Dean's tone showed how deeply offended he felt. "Guess you never made any mistakes then."

"That ONE mistake could have cost one of us our lives." His face grew stormy. "And God forbid that it's YOU lying here like this Dean! You bleeding out on ME because I couldn't fucking take it!" His dark eyes filled involuntary with tears and his mouth twisted into an anguished grimace.

Stunned silence greeted John's outburst.

"I couldn't live if you died, Dean! If I took you on a hunt and you didn't come out alive!" He shouted.

"Dad?" Thrown again by the change in emotions, Dean put a careful hand on his father's arm. "Hey, Dad?"

Tears were running unchecked down his father's cheeks now, disappearing into his beard. "And how... how DARE you think that you're just a soldier to me?"

The shock of seeing his father in tears, vulnerable on his behalf, stunned Dean. His voice broke. "Dad! Be careful… your stitches. I, I… Dad, don't cry, please."

John ignored the plea, running on adrenaline, clearly angry and emotional. "Don't you _dare_ think that there's anything that I would put in front of you! Ever! In front of your discomfort, maybe...in front of a missed little league game, yes. But in front of your safety, never!"

Dean reached out, patting at his father's shoulder, his movements jerky. "There's nothing special about me."

"Nothing special about you?!" Tears were still in his eyes and his face contorted, anger warring with sheer agony.

It was a broken whisper. "No. I'm nothin'. You're the one that keeps us together. Dad, you're gonna rip your stitches. Please don't cry Dad."

John slapped his hand across his bleeding bandaged midsection, ignoring the pain of a few pulled stitches. "You're not nothing! What is wrong with you? I..." he broke off and hissed at the pain in his stomach. "Fucking Singer knows my own kid better than I do." He mumbled in an undertone.

"Calm down, you're gonna kill yourself! What the hell has Bobby been saying!"

John lost his fight to stay upright, he dropped back onto the mattress, gritting his teeth.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean swatted John's hand away from the dressings.

"He's been telling me you and Sam are too sensitive to be hunters for years." John panted. "Told me to pull you out years ago...I didn't want to hear it."

"I'm not fucking sensitive! Sam's the touchy feely one, and he's gone. What do you want to say something like that for! I'm a good hunter. This is what I am, you can't change that now! This is what I'll always be!"

John tears hadn't stopped, they leaked out of his eyes slowly, wetting the high planes of his cheekbone. He put an arm over his face and swallowed silently.

"Shit Dad!" Dean was completely out of his depth.

"Mary would kill me if she were here..." he whispered brokenly.

"What! NO! Mom would be proud, how you kept us together, kept us safe. There's no-one else like you, you're the best Dad." Dean's voice wobbled. "Dad?"  
Dean looked down and saw John's throat work as he swallowed silently. Arm still thrown over his eyes, shielding his vulnerability from his son.

He laid his hand on his father's face, the beard rough underneath his fingers. "You did your best, please don't. I hate seeing you like this, this is all my fault, if I'd have just done my fucking job!"

"Fucked up both your boys." Came the gruffly whispered response, then, " 'M sorry Mary."

"I'm not fucked up." Dean dropped to his knees by the bed; trying to keep make eye contact with his father, pull him back to the present.

He gently pulled the arm away from John's face. His father remained silent for a minute, still fighting himself for control. "Dad you're hurt. We need to get you some help."

Dean was answered with a deep sigh and the attempt at a smile. "What was in that pill you gave me? Feel drunk and sick and like I wanna cry for an hour."

"You need a hospital, I'm gonna go for the Impala."

John reached out and snagged Dean's jacket sleeve. "Stay with me."

Dean thumbed the tears off his father's face. "I'm right here."

John pulled his son's head down to his shoulder in a rough, desperate embrace.

Unsure, but grateful, Dean leaned into it a little, his voice muffled. "Just let me take care of you now Dad. I've got this."

"Think I popped a stitch...feels like its bleeding."

"Yeah, you probably did." Dean lifted the dressing carefully. "Dammit! I'm gonna have to re-stitch that one." He prepared the needle and peroxide.

John settled back and watched his son sadly.

"I've got this okay?" Dean re-stitched the wound carefully. "Come on Dad, what's wrong, this isn't you. You're the tough guy, remember?"

"Hmmm? Yeah I remember"

Dean forced a grin. "Well don't you forget that!"

"Mantle gets a little bit heavy sometimes." John whispered, the lines on his face showing.

That brought a smirk to Dean's face. "Gettin' old."

John choked with a grimace. "Not for long if I keep up at this rate."

"Hey! Knock it off! I don't want to hear that from you."

"We both know how this ends."

"And how's that?"

John didn't hesitate. "Bloody..."

Dean fliched.

"I'm real tired. You know, why don't you call your brother if you miss him so much?"

The question threw Dean; he answered before he had time to think it through. "I did. He doesn't want to talk to me. Doesn't want me… us, in his life anymore." He looked away, ashamed at the admission. "But we'll be okay, right Dad?"

John shook his head ruefully. "Fucking Sam."

Dean found it impossible to keep the bitterness out of his voice, the raw hurt from showing in his eyes. "Guess he didn't need me after all."

"He'll come around. Right now you're the bad guy because your Alliance is with me...or so he thinks."

"No. He's got out. He's gone." There was utter devastation on Dean's face. "He's got other people now."

"Dean, he is your family and you're brothers... You'll work it out sometime" The rely was confident but weary.

Dean shrugged, muttered. "I'll probably be dead by then."

John looked at him sharply. "Are you trying to get me going again?"

"Just don't see many hunters hanging around to retire."

"Precisely why I am taking you out of the field for just a few weeks."

"Where did that come from!"

"Why are you acting shocked by this? Didn't we just have a giant yelling fight about it like 10 minutes ago?" John's patience was wearing thin.

"I don't need to come OUT of the field! I need to be IN the field! I can't just sit there, thinking."

"Thinking about what, kiddo?" The voice grew kinder. "Dean, you need to get your head clear."

"No, Dad. I need to keep moving, hunting. Don't try and stop me."

John reached out blindly and snagged Dean's hand, squeezing it gently.

Dean looked shocked at the physical contact, but didn't pull away.

"Trust my judgment here? Please." John Winchester didn't negotiate with his children. Yet here he was.

"If I don't go…" Dean's voice broke, his final insecurity laid bare.

"Don't go where, kid?" He tightened his hold on Dean's hand.

"If I don't go with you, you're gonna get killed. What have I got then, huh? Nothing, that's what." Dean's breath hitched. "I hate being alone, if you're gone… what's the point of anything then? Might as well just finish it."

John raised a dark eyebrow. "Finish what?"

"Me, Dad. Finish me." Dean laughed, bitter, hard. "Wouldn't be like anyone would care."

"Dean, I hunted for about a decade before you joined me. I'll be fine and I don't want to hear you say that EVER. You _hear_ me?" His fucking kid wasn't listening to anything he said, so unlike Dean.

"You won't be fine. Something'll get you and it'll be my fault for not being there."

"Bullshit! And I'm not going anywhere for a week or two anyway."

Realizing his hand was still held in John's calloused grip, Dean pulled away. The realization hit home with the force of a nuclear blast. No matter what he did, what he said, he wouldn't be able to change John's mind. Sooner or later he would leave. And Dean would be alone.

"Why don't you go stay with Bobby Singer? You like him... Just because we're fighting doesn't mean that it has to be that way between you boys and him."

"Yeah." Something subtle hardened in Dean's expression; it was almost as though an iron shutter dropped, closing off a part of him that had always been open to his father's eyes. "Maybe I'll do that."

Dean straightened his shoulders, his stance altering as the flex of hidden muscles harnessed the ever-present nervous energy. Suddenly the scared, lost boy was put aside, or maybe hidden away. His jaw tightened, brows drawing down.

It was the face and posture of the man he would become.

John saw it. "Don't shut me out, Dean."

Dean narrowed his eyes; he smirked, deflecting his father's emotion easily. "I'm right here Dad."

"I'm not so sure you are." John was never one to be fooled by his son's bravado.

Dean rolled his shoulders, settling himself into his jacket. He eyed John, no hesitation in his gaze.

"I'm gonna get the Impala." It was a statement, no room for argument or discussion. There was a growl in his voice that John had never heard before.

"You're the only man I trust to have my back, you know that?" John said to the retreating figure. "The only one."

Dean took the keys from John's jacket, closed his hand around them. He opened the cabin door and paused, looking back over his shoulder. He gave John a brief nod. "Won't let you down again, Dad."

The door slammed behind him.

The end.

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